Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Ugh. I have this story that's been sitting with me for a while. It's due to be submitted. And it doesn't want to come out onto the paper. I've had it in my head for ages. I've blocked it out in notes. I've lost those notes, somehow, they're not in any of the three notebooks I might have scribbled them into... but writing it down, it's just not coming out right. All that intense prettiness that I can see in my head skids and scrapes as I try to lay it down on the screen the same way. It doesn't want to be out there. For three days I've been opening the folder and looking at it, and doing other stuff instead. What is up with that?

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

I thought I'd be good at languages. With a sensitivity for cadence, and rhythms and structures and words, the taste of them. But no. It never came easy. Not even what's supposed to be my mother tongue, mo theanga fein.

And now along with the distance between us, there are unfamiliar words and meanings. It's not easy to stretch my tongue around your syllables, these multiples, they're hard to swallow.

So so much goes unspoken. Written into the pauses and the silences. They're universal, where translation fails.

It will do, perhaps, or have to, until we find another language, and I can learn you a better, more wordless way.

Monday, June 21, 2010

I'm a little bit in love. With MonMouth. Who I've read before, and liked, but never got involved with, bloggilly for some strange, foolish reason. But here I am at 00.48 am, with the cream cheese sitting unblended in the blender, lemons unzested, cheesecake uncaked and I'm still readingreadingreading his delicious, enticing, heartwarming posts about sex.

There's this tender, naughty compassionate enthusiasm for women, and people, and sex and lust and communication and so on, that I find irresistible, so real it makes me want to cry at times. I'd email him and ask if I could do an interview, if there was anyone visibly reading this. But two comments a post do not an enticing readership make, methinks. Especially when one of them's me.

Maybe it's only because he reminds me of someone. Maybe it's because his posts are so exceedingly hot. But yes. Little bit in love.

For something beautifully, achingly, breathtakingly dirty, try part 1 and part 2 of Parts for Wholes.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Sunday, June 13, 2010

This picture reminds me of Once when I was Young. 15, maybe. And I had a very pretty boyfriend with whom I was learning the beginnings of desire, and sex. And we had a friend, his friend first, Tony. Tony and I got on very well. He was kind, he was sweet, his father was an alcoholic, I think. He didn't talk about it much, but I think he needed a lot. I wish I'd been older, then, maybe, more for him. But. Oh well. Once we kissed a little, me and Tony, played around a little in my basement bedroom before he had to run for the last bus out of the little rural village I lived in. We'd run around town that day, seen a favoured band busking outside the indie record shop, held hands, there was something about the Violent Femmes but I can't remember what.

He came home with me and my boyfriend went home with someone else, and it was the beginning of the end of our eight week weenie love affair, sadly.

But, before all that, before, before, there was this one time that we were all out, hanging about in the sun, obnoxious and young and full of ourselves, us teenagers. Sitting against the wall at the bus stop, in a row. I walked up to Tony, where he sat, with his long legs stretched out, and planted my feet on either side of his spread thighs with a bounce. Stomp, stomp, with my ... hmm, docs, it must still have been, with flowery scarves for laces. And there I stood in front of him with my crotch more or less at face height. And he leaned forward, and kissed me. Right on the zip of my jeans, warm and sweet on my mons, no lower. And I shrieked, and leapt and ran, laughing, all of us laughing, with the kiss branded onto me. It must still be, somehow.